Cross My Palm With a Coin
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Southern Comfort tag: Dean reaches his limit, and has to find a way to deal with it. Preferably one that doesn't involve punching Sam.


**Cross My Palm with a Coin**  
K Hanna Korossy

He'd swallowed it. All of Sam's rant, the anger and the ultimatum, because...well, because he wanted Sam to stay with him. Wanted to pretend they were copacetic, just like old times.

But the bellyful of rage, of Sam's high-and-mighty act, churned inside him. It made him fidget in his seat, rub a hand over his mouth to keep it in, and finally pull off the road when he saw the sign.

Sam looked up from his phone, puzzlement creasing his face. "We stopping already?"

"I need a drink," Dean said shortly, and climbed out of the car without waiting for a response.

He was already ordering at the bar when his brother caught up to him. Sam still sported more confusion than condescension, and that was maybe all that saved him from getting a fist to the face. "Dude, it's, like, 9 am. What's going on?"

The bartender gave him a beer, along with a raised eyebrow that asked the same thing as Sam. Dean ignored them both, taking a long drink. Crap, he should've ordered something harder.

"Dean."

His eyes slid around the almost empty barroom. There were only three other patrons in the place, all of them huddled over plates of eggs and toast and bacon. Even the regulars didn't drink this early. Figured: it took someone like Sam to push you over that edge.

 _"Dean."_

Dean's visual sweep caught on the pool table in the back corner. No players this time of day either. His gut heaved again, trying to disgorge the frustration, the animosity not just from that morning, but all that had been collecting since he got back. It rose in his throat, made his hands shake as he put down the beer.

"Look—"

"You and me," Dean interrupted, suddenly calm. "Eight ball. Winner takes all."

"Winner takes..." Sam followed him over, arms spread. "What are you even talking about?"

He picked up a cue stick and hefted it. Well-balanced. Huh, at least something was. He reached for the chalk as he finally looked over at Sam. "One round. I win, you shut up about the last year and get your head back in the game."

Sam's face had blanked, but his eyes were calculating. "And if I win?"

"You go home to your girl, and I leave you alone."

Sam nodded, jaw tight. "Right. So I have to win my freedom now."

Dean rolled his eyes; he hadn't missed Drama Queen-Sam. "Hey, nobody's cuffing you to the car. If you wanna go, dude, go. I'll drive you to the bus station myself."

"I didn't say that!" There went the arms again.

"Oh, yeah? Now who's not owning their crap? You said it yourself: once the whole tablet thing with Kevin's done, you're done. Well, you know what?" He pointed the cue stick at Sam. "I can finish this myself. Hey, I managed without you for a whole freakin' _year_. So if you wanna get back to _Amelia_ so bad, I'm not stopping you."

"You had Benny," Sam said, sounding bitter.

Dean blinked at him. "What?"

"In Purgatory. You managed without me, but apparently you had Benny."

He closed his eyes, resignation washing out the anger. He could still remember what he'd said under the influence of the coin, even if he didn't feel that way now. "Benny was...Benny was uncomplicated, okay? He watched my back, I watched his—he was a good guy. If he doesn't stay that way topside, I'll be the first one to take him down, all right? But he was..."

"...there when I wasn't." Sam had deflated, too. They were both John Winchester's blood, God help them: angry to cover up the pain, or fear, or worry. Or hurt. But in their line of work, there was a lot of fear and hurt, which meant sometimes the anger didn't end.

He opened his eyes to say...something. Something not mad. Something that wouldn't turn Sam off again.

His brother beat him to it. "Okay, let's do this." Sam stepped in, moving suddenly around the table, grabbing a cue stick.

Dean almost asked what the terms were, because he had no idea at this point, but maybe he didn't want to know. He stared instead as Sam racked the balls and chalked his stick.

Sam hesitated, looking at him sideways. "You wanna break, or..."

"You can break."

Another pause, then Sam leaned over, lined up, and took his shot.

The balls scattered. The striped ten rolled into a side pocket.

"Stripes," Sam called unnecessarily.

Dean just nodded once. He watched as his brother studied the table, moving around it with the easy grace he'd had ever since he'd grown into his size. Dean remembered when he was all colt-limbs and askew joints. Back when he'd looked up to his big brother.

There were at least three shots Sam could try for. He went for the hardest of them...and missed.

Dean moved to take his turn in silence, eyes sliding from ball to ball.

He'd never meant to force Sam into anything. He'd driven him to the bus station when Sam had left for Stanford, dropped him back off at school after their weekend of looking for Dad, helped Sam carry out his kamikaze plan to take Lucifer down. He wanted Sam to be there with him, yeah, but he wasn't Dad: if Sam wanted to leave, Dean would let him go, and be there when he came back. It would half kill him maybe, but he'd do it.

Dean leaned down, carefully took his shot. The solid five hit a half-inch to the side of the pocket and careened back into the middle of the table.

Sam looked at him for a moment, gaze steady, assessing.

Dean stared baldly back.

His brother licked his lips and walked around to the other side of the table. Then to the end. Eyes narrowed, forehead pinched with that look he always got when he was concentrating. Dean wondered if _Amelia_ recognized that look.

Sam bent over, sliding the cue stick back and forth between his fingers as he prepared for the shot.

He suddenly sneezed, and the stick dug into the table, making the ball hop and roll an aimless few inches.

Dean snorted. Seriously? That might work on some college rubes with too much spending money, but he was the guy who'd taught Sam how to hustle. He raised an eyebrow at his brother, who had the grace to look sheepish, and returned his gaze to the balls.

There. He tucked around the corner, bent to take his shot.

The cue ball hit his seven just enough off-center to put a spin on it. It curved neatly toward and then past the hole.

Sam gave him a look of frank disbelief. Then they both stared at the table.

"I could do this all night," Dean drawled.

"Me, too," Sam shot back. His fourteen managed to hit all four sides of the pool table and scatter two solid balls toward pockets before it returned to him.

Dean absently ran the geometry in his head as he chalked his stick. "You know, you never did actually say why you didn't look for me."

Sam froze on the other side of the table. "Yes, I did. I said—"

"You said you were alone so you fixed the Impala and just drove. But you didn't know if I was dead, or in Hell, or even just blown over to the other side of the state." He let fly, and his shot went wild, sending one of Sam's balls into the pocket.

"Yeah, well, you didn't exactly ask." Sam's cue ball went neatly around the striped eleven to knock Dean's two into the corner pocket.

"Sure I did," Dean protested. "I asked if you looked for me, and you said zip. Nada." He circled the table as Sam did the same, keeping the green baize between them. "Zilch."

"You didn't ask if I wanted to, or if I was too messed up, or if I even cared if I kept going."

It was like a dunk of cold water. He stared at Sam. "What?"

Sam, the son of a bitch, was almost smiling. "The last time you died, I became an alcoholic, tried to sell my soul for you, got addicted to demon blood, and ended up trusting a demon and starting the Apocalypse. You think this time I didn't look for you because I suddenly didn't _care_?"

Dean's hand twitched. His stomach swooped, sweat making the back of his neck clammy. He hadn't missed this. Things were so much simpler in Purgatory, with Benny. Dean never had to worry about what the Cajun's silences meant, or if he was mad at Dean or hurt by Dean or disgusted with Dean. He never had to _try_ this hard. And, yeah, so he hadn't asked exactly, had just jumped to the simplest explanation. Dean had forgotten how nothing was simple with them.

Sam was a motionless cipher in the shadows across from him, feet apart, stick dangling from his hand.

Nothing was simple with them, including how fiercely he loved this kid, through good or bad. And how worth it all was when he could see how Sam felt in return.

Dean licked his lips. He wanted to ask why Sam hadn't looked for him, but instead what came out was, "Benny's a friend, but he wasn't a replacement for you." Keenly aware he still technically hadn't asked Sam about the previous year, but not sure now he wanted to know.

Sam was half-turned from him, but the soft huff of disbelief, his cynical "yeah" dug into a part of Dean's heart that had been off-limits since Purgatory.

He didn't know what to say to that. He was pretty sure Sam wouldn't hear him regardless.

Dean's eyes fell to the table. He made the calculations, slid around a corner. His shot pocketed two more of Sam's balls.

He hesitated before standing up. "All those things the coin made me say, I thought them all at some point, okay? I know this'll come as a shock to you, dude, but I'm not perfect." He left a pause for Sam's snort. "But they're not what I really think, what I _know_. "

Sam moved slowly, distractedly. But his shot was perfect, sending Dean's six on a complicated zigzag before it rolled into the side pocket. "Okay." He didn't sound angry anymore.

"But if you want to go back to Amelia, Sam, I mean it: Go. I always wanted that for you." Dean cocked his head. "Just not, y'know, while I was rotting in Purgatory."

Sam's bitchy look unbent Dean's spine a little. Now _that_ was the Sam he knew. Maybe they'd just make it through this after all.

Sam talked to the table. "I'm not... I mean, I don't want to. Not yet. But after..." He met Dean's eyes. "We're gonna have a talk about it."

Dean grimaced. "I can't wait." Then he bent over and quickly made the pair of shots necessary to send the rest of Sam's balls into their pockets.

"You skipped my turn," Sam said mildly.

Dean shrugged. "Sue me."

In less than a minute, Sam sank the rest of the solids.

Dean whistled low. "You practice with Amelia while I was gone?"

"Naw, I just learned from the best."

"Dad?" Dean said with a half-smile.

Sam just gave him a wry look, then took a breath. "So, truce?"

"I will if you will." At Sam's wince, Dean amended that to, "Or until we run into another cursed coin, mind-bending ghost, siren, or get possessed. Or you have PMS."

Sam gave him an even bitchier look as he set his pool cue on the table next to Dean's.

"Like that." Dean tipped a finger at him with a grin.

Disgusted, Sam turned and left.

Dean palmed the eight ball, looking at it a moment before he spun it into a pocket. And followed his brother out.

 **The End**


End file.
